


Five Times

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Inception AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt: "5 times teenager Eames called Arthur daddy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Someone else's.  
> Notes: AU. Underage!Eames.

 

1

  
  
Eames wakes up the Morning After losing his virginity to kisses on the back of his neck, and fingers rubbing the cleft of his arse.  
  
“Good morning,” the cute guy from the club last night murmurs in his hair, rough-voiced and sleepy. His fingers push deeper, till they’re seated fully in Eames’s arse and pushing against his prostate with little ceremony.  
  
Despite the soreness from last night . . . oh, last night . . . Eames groans and pushes onto those long, clever fingers, rapidly getting harder and harder. “Oh, that’s  _lovely_ , pet.”  
  
The cute guy chuckles, nuzzling Eames’s ear. “Mm, you’re still slick from last night. . . .”  
  
“Well, we certainly used enough lube to . . . bloody hell, is it morning,  _really_?” Eames opens his eyes and bolts up so fast he gets dizzy. He’s in a pin-neat dorm room, somewhere on the Exeter campus, if he remembers correctly. The room is completely shuttered, letting in very little sunlight light, but a helpful clock/radio on the night table reads 10:13. Ante meridian. “Oh,  _fuck_! I’m truant!”  
  
The cute guy, Arthur something-or-other—an exchange student, from his accent—sits up, too, frowning. “Truant? Truant as in—oh, Christ . . . how old are you?”  
  
“Er . . . eighteen?” Off Arthur’s doubtful stare, Eames blushes. “In about two years and four months.”  
  
“Oh,  _shit_.” Arthur goes sheet-white. “I fucked a  _fifteen year old_?!”  
  
Eames grins sheepishly. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been told I can pass for a youthful twenty-three. . . .”  
  
“ _I’m_  a youthful twenty-three, and no, you can’t. You don’t look older than nineteen.” Arthur buries his face in his hand. “I’m going to Hell when I die. The extra-crispy Hell.”  
  
“Er. It’ll be alright, A-arthur.” Eames hesitantly pats Arthur’s gelled-but-messy hair. When the older man doesn’t pull away, he turns it into a prolonged stroke. “You didn’t know how old I was. And if you’d asked, I’d have lied, anyway, darling.”  
  
“Oh, Jesus.” Arthur laughs ruefully. “Make a habit of that, do you?”  
  
“No, last night was the first time,” Eames says quietly. Arthur’s looks up at him agog, and pastier than before.  
  
“Are you . . . a virgin?”  
  
“Well, not anymore.” Blushing, Eames takes Arthur’s hand and squeezes it. Then he looks at it again, examining it closely and making a moue of annoyance. “Wow. I bled a little, too.”  
  
Looking horrified, Arthur flops back down to the bed, his wilting erection still managing to tent the sheet covering him. A wave of scalding-hot  _want_  rises in Eames and he grins in what he hopes is a lascivious manner. “Since I’m already well late for school, what say we have a repeat of last night?”  
  
“There’s so much wrong with all this that I can’t even begin to deal,” Arthur says miserably. He looks close to tears, and Eames lays down next to him, cuddling up close.  
  
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Arthur. In fact, last night was the best night of my life.” Eames whispers shyly, putting his hand on Arthur’s chest, and willing the other man to look at him. But Arthur doesn’t, merely scoffs and turns his face away.  
  
“Hmph. You won’t feel that way when you’re older.”  
  
 _Yes, I will_ , Eames thinks, but doesn’t say. Arthur is sitting up again, his profile grim and tired. When he looks at Eames, his expression is both stern and unreadable.  
  
“Get dressed and I’ll give you a ride home. Your parents must be worried sick,” he says, getting out of bed. His body is whip-cord lean, tense, and as gorgeous as Eames remembers from last night.  
  
"Actually they think I'm over-nighting at my friend, Yusuf's."  
  
Arthur scrubs his face. “Thank goodness for small favors, but—God, you can’t  _ever_  do anything like this again, kid. It’s not safe, and . . . fuck, and neither were we. Someone your age, picking up strange guys at a club is a recipe for disaster!”  
  
“But Arthur—“  
  
“Get dressed. Then I'm taking you home.” With that, Arthur marches into what Eames presumes to be the loo, slamming the door.  
  
“Yes, daddy,” Eames sighs, rolling onto his side and blinking away tears.  
  


2

  
  
Eames is starting to think he’s been stood up.  
  
He’s been waiting at the entrance to the fairgrounds for nearly half an hour, and there’s no sign of Bobby anywhere. People-watching got old twenty minutes ago and he’s been getting weird stares from passers-by. As if they’ve never seen a person sitting alone on a rickety park bench before.  
  
It’s getting so Eames wants to stick his tongue out at them—especially the children.  
  
Angry and embarrassed, he finally decides he’s giving it and Bobby five more minutes, then that’s it. He’ll go home, argue with his parents till he gets grounded, and never speak to Bobby again. At least until Bobby buys him some ridiculous, expensive make-up gift.  
  
It’s a plan—a plan and a half, really.  
  
“And his loss, too, if—the  _bloody_  hell!”  
  
Eames nearly flies out of his skin when something paws his leg impatiently.  
  
It’s a small, sausage-shaped Jack Russell terrier with golden eyes and floppy ears, standing on his back paws. His front ones are getting dust all over Eames’s trouser legs.  
  
The expensive new designer jeans he spent his hard-earned allowance on just to impress Bobby.  
  
Sighing, Eames shakes his legs a little, but the dog holds on tight, barking happily as if he expects a treat.  _As if_. “Oh, piss off, you little shi—“  
  
“Dogbert! Down! That’s a bad boy!”  
  
At the vaguely familiar voice, Eames starts again, looking up. Jogging toward him is man in a sweater vest, cargos, and tennies. He’s lean, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a very serious demeanor—  
  
It’s the guy from last year. From  _That Night_.  
  
“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” the guy pants, all honest exasperation. “He’s still a puppy and acts like it, most of the time. I—oh!”  
  
And apparently the guy from last year—Arthur something-or-other—remembers him, too.  
  
They sit and stand there, respectively, staring at each other in shock and no small amount of chagrin, Eames gone bright red, Arthur gone sheet-white. It’s an impasse of dismay until Dogbert barks his high, puppy-bark, looking between them as if one of them had  _better_  have a treat on his person.  
  
“Uh. . . .” Arthur says, clearing his throat, and looking everywhere but at Eames. “It’s Adam, right?”  
  
“Alan.”  
  
“Right, sorry.” Dark, dark eyes tick to Eames’s, then away again. “How’ve you, uh, been?”  
  
“What, since you deflowered me, then dumped me off at my doorstep?” Eames snorts when Arthur turns equally red. “Just ducky, darling. You?”  
  
“Fine.” Arthur’s bites his lip as if holding back something snappish, and frowns just like he did That Morning. He looks around as if searching for an escape route. His eyes light on the fair and he smiles lamely. “You here for the fair?”  
  
Eames stares at Arthur as if he’s stupid, and Arthur turns redder.  
  
“I’m not here for the fair, I—I was just walking Dogbert. That’s my dog.”  
  
“No doubt. Please get him off my hundred quid jeans.”  
  
“Ah, shit— _down_ , Dogbert!”  
  
Dogbert ignores him, still looking up at Eames as if he’s got treats. Eames sighs.  
  
“Go on, then. Obey your daddy and  _shoo_!” He shakes his leg  _hard_  and Dogbert finally whines and leaves off, trotting a few feet away and looking pitiful.  
  
Looking vaguely like his owner, actually.  
  
Eames attempts to brush the worst of the dust away—mostly succeeding—and stands up. Either he’s grown or Arthur’s shrunk, because they’re now of a height, facing each other eye to eye.  
  
“I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” Eames says flatly, and immediately regrets it when Arthur makes a face he can’t decipher.  
  
“Ah.” He rocks back on his heels, then forward onto his toes. “I see. I guess I should leave you to it, then.”  
  
“Perhaps you should.”  
  
Arthur nods. “Take care of yourself, Alan Eames.”  
  
“Whatever,” Eames sniffs. But he watches Arthur and Dogbert until they’ve gone quite out of sight. And it isn’t till Bobby Fischer finally shows up, all kisses and charming apologies that Eames realizes Arthur may not have remembered his first name, but he’d remembered his last.  
  


3

  
  
Every inch of him is one throbbing, sluggish ache.  
  
Eames can barely move, his limbs are so leaden—  
  
“Don’t try to move, Mr. Eames. You’ve had an accident and you’re pretty badly injured,” a low voice, vaguely familiar voice says, and Eames immediately stills.  
  
“Dad?” he husks out, only that’s not right. His father’s voice is deeper, gruffer, and rarely that solicitous. So he struggles to open his eyes, hissing and blinking at the light.  
  
“Ah, shit—here, lemme get that for you.” After a few seconds, the lights dim, and after a few minutes of blinking and squinting Eames is looking up at a blurry figure dressed in light blue.  
  
“Who are you—where am I?” he croaks, and the figure leans in a little closer, but Eames still can’t make out any features other than dark eyes and a pale face.  
  
“My name is Dr. Korinski, and you’re in the intensive care unit of Royal Devon.”  
  
Eames closes his eyes again, and tries to remember what could have possibly happened to put him in hospital, but can’t. Can’t think beyond the slow ache and desperate weariness that threatens to drag him under bit by bit. “What happened to me?”  
  
Dr. Korinski sighs. “There was a car accident . . . according to the EMTs, your friend was . . . intoxicated—“  
  
“Oh, God, Bobby—is he okay?” Eames opens his eyes and tries to sit up again. This time, Dr. Korinski’s hands, light and cool, touch his shoulders and just that simple touch is enough to keep Eames down. He whimpers as the pain in his body ramps up another notch of un-fucking-bearable and tears run down his face. “Please . . . is Bobby okay?”  
  
“Calm down, Mr. Eames. Mr. Fischer is fine, he’s been treated and released.” Dr. Korinski leans down, and Eames squints again, trying to make out features— _something_. All he can make out clearly are serious dark eyes and a solemn, but kind mouth. . . .  
  
“Bloody  _hell, Arthur_?” he asks unbelievingly, and that solemn mouth curves just a little.  
  
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with your memory,” Dr. Korinski— _Arthur_  says mildly. “Ah, your parents’ll be glad to hear that.”  
  
Mind spinning—along with the room—Eames sighs, listening to machines beep and hum. He suddenly wants his mother very badly. To feel her gentle hand on his forehead and hear her voice telling him he’ll be okay. “Are my parents here?”  
  
There’s a silence, awkward and hesitant, before Arthur answers. “They were. They went home to get some rest. It’s pretty late, and visiting hours are over.”  
  
More tears leak out of Eames’s eyes and he closes them hoping the urge to cry will pass. He’s seventeen years old—almost eighteen—and he will  _not_  be caught out acting like a baby in front of this man, no matter how injured he is. “How long have I been in hospital?”  
  
Another hesitant pause. “You’ve been here for three days.”  
  
Eames moans as fresh pain washes over him. Then he gasps as the same light, cool weight that’d stilled him before, settles slowly on his forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”  
  
“I really should wait till your parents arrive to discuss your injuries with you. In fact, I’m not even your attending, so I shouldn’t be discussing them at all. . . .”  
  
“At least tell me . . . are my injuries life-threatening?”  
  
A longer pause, this time. Long enough for Eames to worry, till that gentle hand strokes his head and through his hair. “Not any more. You’re stable, and you’re  _awake_ , something we were afraid might not happen.”  
  
“I was in a coma?”  
  
“A brief one, but yes.”  
  
“Will I . . . slip into another coma if I fall asleep?”  
  
“ _No_.” Arthur leans closer again, and Eames’s huffs out a breath as one of the machines he’s hooked up to begins to beep a little faster. “There’s absolutely no danger of that. The only danger to you now is if you  _don’t_  get the rest your body needs to heal itself, okay?”  
  
“O-okay.”  
  
“That means if you need to go to sleep, then you go to sleep. Trust me, your body will thank you.” Arthur smiles, wry and tired. Eames sighs and blinks, only once his eyes close, he can’t seem to open them again, for all his trying. The pain has lessened some and now his body mostly just feels heavy and weary.  
  
“If I—if I fall asleep,” he yawns. “Will you stay with me until my parents come?”   
  
Yet another one of Arthur’s pauses, so long that the reply, when it comes, rouses Eames out of a half-doze. “Uh . . . actually, I’m at the end of a thirty-six hour shift, and I . . . yeah, I can stay till the morning.”  
  
Eames tries to smile, even though it makes his chapped lips hurt. “Thank you, Arthur.”  
  
Another pause, but this one is so brief as to be almost unnoticeable.  
  
“You’re very welcome, Alan.”  
  
When weariness tries to sweep him under again, Eames lets it, safe in the knowledge that someone’s watching over him. That when next he wakes up he won’t be alone.  
  


4

  
  
“Knock-knock.”  
  
Eames looks over from the telly and grins. “What’s up, Doc?”  
  
Arthur grins his uncertain, grimace of a grin and comes into Eames’s hospital room. “Just figured I’d check in on you, see how you’re doing on your big day.”  
  
Eames leans back in his chair and does a wheelie, spinning it in a circle. “I’m doing fabulous, darling. Doing bloody backflips. In my head, anyway.”  
  
Arthur sits in the visitor’s chair with a happy little sigh. He’s probably been on his feet all morning. “I saw your parents signing release forms at the nurse’s station and . . . well, I just wanted to say good-bye.”  
  
Eames snorts. “This is hardly good-bye. I’ll be back here five days a week for physical therapy. I expect you to at least pop in and say hello.”  
  
Arthur’s eyebrows quirk up. “Usually patients—uh, people don’t want anyone to see them doing physical therapy. It can be a . . . frustrating, sometimes embarrassing process.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Eames turns off the telly, tosses the remote at the bed, and rolls a little closer to Arthur. “You’ve already seen me at my worst. And at my best.” Arthur blushes when Eames leers. “I’d like to consider you a f-friend, after everything. And I’m gonna need all the friends I can get for the next little while.”  
  
That grimace-grin makes another appearance and Arthur runs a hand through his gelled-back hair, messing it up a bit. “Alright. When’s your first session scheduled?”  
  
“Friday at half-three.” Eames leans back in his wheelchair. “My friend Yusuf’s gonna be there, too. You two’ll get on like a house on fire. He’s into biology and chemistry and all that bollocks.”  
  
“’All that bollocks,’ huh? Nice of you to sum up my life’s work so succinctly.” Arthur laughs a little. “Any other friends of yours you’d like me to meet?”  
  
“Nah—fair-weather bastards, the lot of them. Yusuf’s been the only one to visit,” Eames says, looking down at his legs. Useless for the nonce, due to his spinal injury. But not for much longer, if he has anything to say about it.  
  
“I take it you’re on the outs with Mr. Fischer?”  
  
Startled, Eames looks up again, schooling his face into its most casual indifference, even though his chest feels like it’s caught in a vice. That happens a lot, lately, especially at night, when all Eames can seem to see is Bobby’s big, blue eyes, and all he can seem to feel are Bobby’s hands on his body . . . even on his stupid, useless legs. “Bobby and I aren’t seeing each other, anymore.”  
  
Arthur frowns. “Not seeing—ah, he was your, uh. . . .”  
  
“Boyfriend, yes.” Eames tries to smile and misses by a long shot. “For the past . . . bloody hell, for the past two years. On and off. Mostly on.”  
  
“And now is one of the ‘off’ times?”  
  
“For keeps,” Eames says firmly, bitterly. “He couldn’t be arsed to visit me once since the accident. Only called the once. Sod him. It’s over.”  
  
Arthur sighs. “Ah, I’m sorry, Alan.”  
  
“I’m not,” Eames half-lies.  
  
The silence that follows this is awkward—as are many of the silences between himself and Arthur.  
  
“Between putting you in this mess in the first place, then not visiting you, it sounds like he wasn’t good enough for you, anyway,” Arthur finally says, and Eames forces a laugh.  
  
“That sounds like something my mum would say.”  
  
“Well, your mum’d be absolutely right.”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, mummy—well, daddy, I suppose.” Though, on the subject of Eames’s lifestyle choices, Eames’s father is certain to remain carefully out-of-the-loop. He can’t even bring himself to attend a PFLAG meeting, though Eames’s mum attends them weekly.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Roused from his brooding by a gentle touch on his knee, Eames looks down at Arthur, who’s kneeling in front of him. His eyes are as solemn as ever, but leavened with concern.  
  
“Seriously, Alan. He’s not good enough for you. You’re a thousand times too good for some guy who doesn’t even care enough for you to drive sober.” Arthur shakes his head. “I know it may not feel like it now, but trust me: it gets better. You’ll  _find_  better.”  
  
Eames covers Arthur’s hand with his own and manages a real smile, this time. “I do. Trust you, I mean. And I know it’ll get better. But for now, it sort of feels like he did a Watusi on my heart.”  
  
Arthur’s face falls, and Eames kicks himself. “Sorry. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. I get . . . maudlin  _every time_  Bobby and I break up. This time’s no different.”  _Except that it’s worse,_ Eames thinks.  
  
“One day, you’ll look back on this and you won’t even remember how it feels to be this sad. I promise,” Arthur says, fervent and sincere. “And you’ll find someone who deserves you.”  
  
 _And one day, pigs will sprout wings and fly to the moon._  Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand, and they stay like that for awhile, staring into each other’s eyes.  
  
Then Eames hears his mother’s excited voice coming down the hall—and his father’s gruff, grumbled replies—and removes his hand. Arthur removes his as well and stands up, adjusting his scrubs and smoothing his hair.  
  
“Uh, see ya Friday? Half-three?”  
  
“Friday, half-three,” Eames confirms, tipping Arthur a wink. Arthur blushes and smiles, backing out of the room. He collides spectacularly with Eames’s father and paperwork goes flying everywhere.  
  
Bobby Fischer forgotten for the moment, Eames laughs and laughs.  
  


5

  
  
“So, I aced my A-Levels.”  
  
An excited, if opaque look. Eames smiles and goes on. “I got accepted to University to study—well, you’ll never guess.”  
  
A curious tilt of his head, and Eames chuckles. “That's right! Art History, of all things. Father is, of course, thrilled.”  
  
A soft whine, and Eames rolls his eyes. “But of course, you don’t care. All you’re interested in is getting fed, isn’t that right, Berty?”  
  
Dogbert  _wuff_ s happily, standing on his hind legs, begging for a treat. Eames sighs. “Alright. But just one, and don’t tell Arthur. You’re supposed to be on a diet, remember?”  
  
Berty whines again, and Eames fishes a treat out of his pocket, tossing it up in the air. Berty jumps up and catches it neatly, crunching and chewing in apparent ecstasy. Eames pats the dog’s head companionably.  
  
The park is quiet at this time of day, just before the Lower Forms let out. It’s peopled mostly by the elderly, and by office drones on lunch breaks. And, of course, by Eames and Dogbert.  
  
In the months since he’s regained the use of his legs, it’s become part of Eames’s continuing physical therapy to walk to the park, once around the park (with rest-breaks whenever he needs them) then home.  
  
At first, he’d done the walks with his mum, during her lunch breaks. Then as the weeks wore into months, he was doing them on his own, later in the day. By month three, Arthur had taken to joining him, schedule permitting, ostensibly to give himself desperately needed exercise.  
  
(“But you’re as skinny as a rail, darling,” Eames had noted slyly, and Arthur had snorted.  
  
“Which is why I need the exercise. I used to swim, but I just don’t have the time anymore. It’s much easier to go walking than it is to hustle out of my scrubs, into swim gear, and all after making a twenty minute drive to the Y,” Arthur had said matter-of-factly.  
  
“Ah,” had been Eames’s somewhat downcast reply.)  
  
And somehow, those walks began to include Dogbert (who also, quite frankly, needed the exercise). At first Eames had been leery of sharing their semi-weekly constitutionals with the annoying puppy he remembered from three years ago. But time had improved both behavior and excitability on Dogbert’s part (and patience on Eames’s) and the two of them got on surprisingly well.  
  
Possibly because Eames always had dog treats in his pockets.  
  
“Because I’m not above bribing the other man in your daddy’s life, am I, Berty?”  
  
Berty, still chewing on the treat, ignores him. Eames laughs and leans back, stretching his arms out on the back of the bench and closing his eyes. After a few blissfully serene minutes, he brushes his fingers across lips that still tingle with warmth. . . .  
  
Today, halfway through their walk, Arthur had received an emergency page.  
  
“Ah, shit,” he’d muttered, frowning down at Dogbert then up at Eames. “I’ve gotta—“  
  
“No, yeah, go,” Eames’d said, hiding his disappointment. “I can finish walking Berty for you, and take him home with me. You can pick him up when you’re done.”  
  
“Really?” Arthur had looked so relieved, that Eames had to grin.  
  
“But of course, darling. It’s not a problem at all.” He’d smirked wickedly. “Besides, I can use him to pick up cute boys.”  
  
Arthur had rolled his eyes. “No using my dog to pick up cute boys.”  
  
Pouting, Eames had leaned on his cane a little, and contrived to look both innocent and frail. No mean feat, considering the twenty-five pounds of muscle he’d put on from physical therapy and working out.  
  
Arthur had sighed as only the heavily put-upon can. “Okay, you’re allowed to pick up boys, but only if they’re really cute ones.”  
  
“Would I settle for less?”  
  
“Good point.” Arthur had quirked an eyebrow meaningfully, and Eames had blushed.  
  
“So, I’ll see you later, then?”  
  
“Probably much later. Sometimes, I wonder why I chose Triage over Research.” Arthur was back to frowning, and Eames had put a hand on his chest, leaning in to kiss his cheek. It was cool and faintly stubbly, making Eames’s lips tingle.  
  
“Because you’re a steady hand and a cool head, with a talent for biology and chemistry and all that bollocks,” they’d both finished, laughing a little and looking everywhere but at each other.  
  
“Right-o,” Arthur had finally said, blushing rather hotly, meeting Eames’s eyes and searching them. Eames had smiled crookedly, blushing, himself. And one or the other of them—or maybe both of them—had leaned in toward each other. . . .  
  
And just shy of their lips brushing, Arthur’s pager had gone off again.  
  
“Fuck!” Arthur had exclaimed, looking down and shutting the damned thing off. He’d looked up at Eames apologetically. “I’ve really gotta go.”  
  
“Oh-okay.” Flustered, Eames had taken Berty’s leash from Arthur, shivering a little when their fingers brushed. “I’ll see you later, then.“  
  
“Yeah. Later.” Arthur had smiled a little wistfully then walked away. But before he’d gotten five steps, Eames had caught up with him.  
  
“Wait!” He’d put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and when Arthur turned, a question on his lips, Eames had darted in and kissed it away, before he thought better of it. And as he’d leaned back, already beet-red, Arthur had caught him by the biceps and held him still, looking into his eyes.  
  
“The extra. Crispy. Hell,” he’d murmured. Then they were kissing again—tentatively, at first then with increasing confidence and ease. For a few seconds, anyway. Then Arthur was breaking the kiss with several tiny, teasing kisses that Eames knew meant  _good-bye_.  
  
“Don’t,” Eames had said—had  _pleaded_ , putting his hands on Arthur’s chest. Arthur had cupped Eames’s face in his hands and kissed his eyelids.  
  
“I have to, Alan. But we  _will_  be continuing this conversation later. Okay?”  
  
Eames had nodded, and smiled gamely. Arthur had returned the smile, and sealed it with one more kiss.  
  
Then he was dashing off, raincoat flapping behind him.  
  
Berty, sitting placidly at Eames's feet, had barked his good-bye, and looked up at Eames expectantly. Eames, still red about the face, had snorted.  
  
“I know you want a treat now that Arthur’s gone, but it’s the constitutional for you, my son. On we go.”  
  
But in the end, Berty had gotten his way: a rest and a treat.  
  
So they sit there comfortably, Berty napping (and occasionally snapping at dream-butterflies) and Eames daydreaming, until the Lower Forms begin to swamp the park, bringing chaos and the delightful scents of hormones and spot-cream.  
  
“Eurgh, let’s go,” he mutters to Berty, standing up and ignoring the very slight twinge in his lower back. It always twinges, these days, but the twinge grows less and less as time passes.  
  
It may disappear altogether if he keeps up with a careful exercise regimen, according to his physical therapist.  
  
“C’ _mon_ , up, slug-a-bed.” He tugs on Berty’s leash when the terrier growls his reluctance and doesn’t budge. Then he tugs some more, practically garroting the lazy animal.  
  
Berty whines up at him imploringly, but Eames has absolutely no sympathy.  
  
“If I can get up, then you can, too.  _Up._ ”  
  
Huffing a doggy-sigh, Berty gets to his feet and leads an absently grinning Eames out of the park. All the way home, his cane barely touches the ground.


End file.
